


Touches

by Nalyra



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Disturbing Themes, Intimacy, M/M, POV First Person, Possessive Behavior, Post canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 12:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11380074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nalyra/pseuds/Nalyra
Summary: Short vignette. Popped into my mind and wouldn't get out.Hannibal touches Will after the Fall.What if it had consequences that they didn't take into account?





	Touches

**Author's Note:**

> Not quite happy, but not totally bleak either.

More than anything, it’s in his touch. 

The way his fingers linger, just a split second too long. 

The way their calloused tips drag along my skin just before they gently pry my mouth open. Before they slowly glide inside, pressing from the inside. How his fingers feel in my mouth, ungloved, though we both know it would be better for healing if he wore them. He never even asked if he should. There is nothing between us now, nothing hidden. Nothing allowed. Nothing needed, not even words. His fingers glide over my torn and inflamed flesh, pressing and rubbing and I give him a sound of pain, greedily absorbed. 

He wants everything. And he cannot bear to loose me. 

It’s frightening and yet freeing, fraught with possibilities. 

His fingers leave me and I feel bereft, the sound of regret leaving me before I can stop it. His fingers are back immediately, hovering over my mouth, scorching hot and icy cold, his thumb stroking my jaw. Surely he must feel my jumping heartbeat, must feel how every cell of my body yearns for contact. His other hand comes up to push at a lock of my hair, away from my sweaty skin, cool air in its wake. A shiver runs through me and I gasp, my tongue stuck on his name, still uncooperative, still swollen. 

„Shhhh…“

His fingers stroke my lips and my forehead now, just over the bandage over my eyes. My world is always dark now, though he says that my eyes look the same, the bandage only a help for me to get used to it. He says it was the fever, in combination with some kind of allergic reaction to the antibiotics available. Maybe it was. Maybe he took my sight so I might never leave him. It doesn’t matter though, now, not anymore. 

I raise my arms, feel how heavy they are, bedridden now for weeks. I trace along his frame, seated on the edge on the bed next to me. His middle is wrapped in a tight bandage as well, his gunshot wound apparently healing well, muscles and ribs a stark relief, so thin. I don’t ask. My mouth drops open a bit and I feel his fingertips between my lips now, hovering just above my teeth. My hands come up over his shoulders, my fingers clenching in the cloth, as they have done every time he has come close enough, ever since the cliff. 

He sighs my name and a sound steals itself out of my throat, my fingers clenching tighter. I pull and I feel him give, just a bit, his body heat coming down over me, blanketing me. The sheets rustle and the chain that is there supposedly for my own safety clinks as I move a bit, fingers still clenched tight. I inhale deeply, sweat and sea salt and oil and coffee and fresh bread and -him-. He hums and then brushes his lips over his own fingertips, close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips, his hair tickling my nose, an impression of stubble on my left cheek. He pushes himself up again with a sigh after a moment, easily freeing himself from my grasp as he does so. I inhale a shuddering breath, my hands dropping to my blanket and his thumb on my forehead strokes gently for a moment before he removes his hands, both places on my skin burning. 

Some rustling and wetness I cannot keep trails down my jaw, silently, dripping onto the pillow, saturated with sadness and frustration. The sound of a syringe drawing liquid reaches me and I know it will bring peace and equilibrium, will evaporate choice. His fingers trace the neat row of stitches on my right cheek for a moment, dragging along the string, pulling just hard enough to trigger pain, making me hiss. A sound like a moan, carried on an exhale and then the little prick comes, his fingers smoothing out my bedding as the world starts to spin in darkness. 

His left hand is on my throat when consciousness begins to leave me, just heavy enough, feeling me swallow what I cannot yet say and it should be frightening to be so fully in his hands, literally. Chained to a bed and blind, subjected to his will. 

And yet, it is simply grounding, every last one of my breaths measured and accounted for. We are bound to each other now, he is my keeper. And one day, I know, he will be my lover. My everything.

Oh, how Bedelia would laugh.

Maybe, when I’m well enough again, we will visit her.  
Supposedly the other senses improve when you loose one.  
I wonder how well she has marinated and then I don’t wonder anymore, my world narrowed down to the way his thumb strokes my Adam’s apple, exploding in a thousand stars, hurling me towards nothing.

  


Waking up would be nice… but if I don’t he won’t leave me. 

That I know.

**Author's Note:**

> \------
> 
> Feedback is appreciated!


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